Ripley nods firmly, a yes without question. (She's asked plenty of those already). "You're right, I'm sorry. Force of habit."

Drawing back her hand, she becomes distinctly aware of the carapace-like armor still hugging her form. Trapping her. Turning her into something she's not— someone whose blood thirst drives blade between vertebrae. No matter how deserving Fever declares herself to be of such a fate, it's a pain she doesn't envy.

And so she begins to work it off, red shell ripped away with little care for how the seams may pop, until she's free of it. Stands in similar underclothes across from Fever, holding the vinyl costume in her fist like a shed exoskeleton.

"Will you help me destroy it?"